Streap Club
by La Carta Esferica
Summary: Rebecca decides to take Simon to an interesting place


"Come on, it'll be fun!"

"If you idea of fun is having a female stripper rubbing against you, I'm going to start doubting your heterosexuality," Simon says with a big smirk.

Which, now that he thinks of it, his sister never said she was straight. And she and that friend of hers, Laura, are way too close for it to be normal, heterosexual, fist-bumping friends forever. All these whispers, they sleepovers every single week, and there was the Shower Incident this one time… oh god.

"God," he grunts. "I need alcohol."

Rebecca grins. She looks a bit evil, Simon thinks. "Go grab us something to drink, I'll get us a table," she says.

So Simon does, even charming the bartender a little (something he's not used to). He orders two whiskeys, feeling pretty badass about it. He's starting to feel a little better about the whole situation (frankly, he doesn't even know why he followed Rebecca here, the 'Take me to a streap club' was purely metaphorical). After all, if he's pissed enough, he might even not be too embarassed about the whole thing.(Thought he knows that's not true)

Except that his sister's smiling when she comes back, and there's no way this is a good sign. Whenever you see Rebecca smile, run, run for your life.

"What?"

Rebecca smiles again. Oh no. Oh no.

"You didn't."

She smirks. Evil. "Damn right I did, little Simon." She pats the seat next to her. "C'm'on, sit down. You'll love it."

Simon is trying to think up a way to escape (because no, shockingly, a lapdance by a stripper isn't what he was hoping to take out of this night, maybe just a relaxing night with his sister) when a girl comes over. And wow, okay, this might not be as terrible as it seemed two seconds ago, because the girl is – well, she's – she must be the prettiest thing that Simon's ever seen, and god, her lips.

Rebecca seems pleased with herself, which is not rare but remains extremely unpleasant, when Simon sits down wordlessly. The girl cocks her head and smirks at him. Simon wants to swallow her whole (he's not usually like that. He's just – he can stop being a gentleman for a while, right?).

"What's your name?" Rebecca asks obviously approving her choice. Simon is revising his opinion – his sister is clearly awesome.

"Isabelle," the girl says. Even her voice is perfect, slow and seductive, the syllables elongated in her mouth as though they were gum.

"Is that your real name?" Simon can't help but ask. He could probably get thrown out for asking that, but he doesn't really care at this point.

"May be," Isabelle says, and she sounds oddly genuine, so Simon is just going to pray that it's true. As any other time he prays, it probably won't do much of anything, but he doesn't really care about that either right now, so it's okay.

The girl– Isabelle– winks at him. Her eyes are black, black, black with speckles of brown. A perfect contrast with her pale skin.

She's rather heavily dressed for an exotic dancer, but the light gray suit vest hangs on her naked shoulders so sinfully that Simon may have forgotten to breathe for a moment. The skin – white, unstained – flashes at Simon when she moves, the languid light painting colored rays on her slim hips. Simon swallows, loudly. He can feel Rebecca smiling next to him.

He'd forgotten about his and Rebecca's drinks (okay, so he had forgotten about pretty much anything that isn't these lips and 'i want to bend her over a table and fuck her until she screams', but that isn't the point), but they come back to his mind when the girl curls a long-fingered hand around one of the glasses, brings it to her lips and takes a gulp. Simon watches her throat work as she throws her head back, white and gleaming. He wants to lick it and suck love bites on the immaculate skin. The girl – Isabelle, fuck, Isabelle– licks a drop that has wandered on her lips, a seductive swipe of tongue that makes Simon's pants just that little bit tighter. God, and she hasn't even started.

Simon just has the time to think that Rebecca is being strangely silent before Isabelle is all up in his space, one leg hooked between his, looking down at him, one hand on his shoulder, heat seeping through the fabric of Simon's T-shirt.

Okay, so he may be a little bit excited.

Isabelle starts – dancing isn't even the word, sliding maybe, her hips rotating slowly, tantalizing. Her smirk doesn't leave her face but her eyelids fall shut and her mouth half-open, red and bitable. Simon thinks of it swollen with kisses, hot on his neck, sucking a 'you're mine' or a 'i'm yours' (and he is not going to say where else he imagines that mouth)

The feeling of her fingers (Simon wants to suck them in his mouth and make Isabelle moan, moan his name and beg him to fuck her) framing his face when she removes Simon's glasses is entirely too much. They trace a light pattern over his cheekbones, and Simon can't hold back a whimper, which would really be fucking embarassing if he cared.

Isabelle slides a hand in Simon's hair. She doesn't dance very well, too slow for a stripteaser, more languid than frantic as these things usually are (not that Simon's already gotten a lapdance, because it is not the case), but god, Simon can see why someone would hire her, because he can't fucking take his eyes off her, her jean-clad leg that's millimiters away from his crotch, the feeling of her fingers rubbing his scalp and tugging at his hair, her legs… And her face, god, her face must be criminal somewhere, because Simon would fucking kill for seeing that face every day (bloodcherryred lips – long dark hair – smirk, lips, lips again, a hint of gleaming enamel, teeth).

Simon is too far gone to be embarrassed about the full-blown bulge tenting his pants by now, but he suspects that he would be embarassed to come from a jailbait-looking stripper not even touching him. He's not a teenager anymore, for god's sake. (Is Isabelle? She looks like it, but she doesn't, as though he hasn't decided which one he likes best.)

He hears Rebecca take in a ragged breath next to him. "Um, I think that'll be all," she says as Isabelle lowers herself down and rubs against Simon, sending spikes of electricity to pierce his skin. Simon's blood is Pompei at its glorious hour, red and boiling, ready to blow up.

He takes a rushed breath, and his eyes fall closed on their own accord. This can't –

But suddenly there's nothing left pressing against him, and Isabelle's smirking down at him when he opens his eyes, a blush high on his cheeks (his eyes are heavy-lidden but oh so intent, as though they were trying to bore holes through his skin – Simon thinks of lava spilling on his throat). Simon purposefully doesn't look at Rebecca (he can't wait to hear what she'll tell Clary, though, seriously, and it would get worse when Jace gets to know it).

Rebecca hands Isabelle a few bills. Isabelle checks the amount, her eyes lazy and uninterested, and tucks them in her back pocket with a cheeky "Thanks"

Simon is sarting to relax again (this is over, he tries to tell his dick, who apparently isn't getting the message), and so he nearly jumps when he feels a hot breath brush his ear. Isabelle's laugh tumbles in his ear, banging against his eardrum, and if even that feels this good, Simon is in serious trouble.

"I'm off in ten," she says, calm and low. "Wait for me outside."

Simon would say something but his ability to say words appears to have left him, so he just nods wordlessly, gulping loudly.

Isabelle laughs and mock-salutes them. "Gentlemen," she drawls, and wanders away.

Rebecca and Simon stare wordlessly at her ass. They're only human, after all.

The silence that follows is a bit overwhelming. It lasts for a few moments, and then there's Rebecca strangled voice, tinted with a hint of laughter, "Don't mention it."

(And if Rebecca's car keys misteriously end up in Simon's back pocket, who wakes up next day with some hickeys, lipgloss marks and a new phone number on his contacts, they don't mention it. These things happen.)


End file.
